


times forever frozen

by hapakitsune



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - College/University, Getting Back Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-22 16:18:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4842167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hapakitsune/pseuds/hapakitsune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They agreed, back before they'd left school, that it was better to break up. It's just hard to remember that sometimes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	times forever frozen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [softstruggles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/softstruggles/gifts).



> WELL. anyway this is a thing, thanks to b for glancing the whole thing over as i was ripping my hair out over this, and thanks to h for being like "don't worry you are not terrible" and "if this has a sad ending i'll kill you." this is a cool challenge, i'm glad i participated and didn't totally punk out! hope you enjoy bud!

Across the dressing room, Jack is lacing up his skates. He hasn’t looked at Connor once since they got here, like he thinks he’ll be able to avoid him for the entire World Cup. Then again, Connor reflects, he’d done a pretty good job all through the draft and the All-Star Game and the NHL Awards. Jack is one of the most stubborn people he’s ever met, stubborn and difficult and bratty and overdramatic –

Jack glances up like he can feel Connor’s gaze on him. For one, electric moment, their eyes meet, and it seems as though all the air has been sucked from the room. Connor’s stomach turns, and he thinks, _This isn’t my fault_ , like Jack could hear him. _We both agreed on this._

And, underneath that, _Shit, I still love you_.

That’s not a new realization. It’s just harder now, when they’re going to be playing on the same team for the first time in more than a year and they’ve barely spoken to each other since the last time they saw each other in Boston, Jack curled up in Connor’s bed and his face blotchy with tears he was refusing to shed. Connor wasn’t much better; his knuckles had grown stiff from how tightly he was holding onto Jack’s shirt. 

“it’s the smart thing to do,” Jack said, the same thing he had been saying for hours, when he’d sat Connor down in their dorm room and said, “We can’t do this after school ends.” 

And Jack was right; still is right, really, and Connor knows that. There was no way they could have continued as they were, not with Connor in Edmonton and Jack in Buffalo, not with the media spotlight on both of them. Neither of them are ready to make that jump, even if they miss each other – and Connor doesn’t actually know if Jack misses him. God, he hopes Jack misses him. 

Aaron finishes lacing up his skates and slaps Connor on the back in a friendly manner before getting up to head out to the ice. Connor flashes him what he hopes is a convincing smile and looks back to Jack. Jack has bent back over his skates, and he doesn’t look up even when Seth Jones yells his name. 

So it’s going to be like that. 

Out on the ice, Jack is a familiar shape. Connor circles around the edge of the rink, watching everyone else and wondering how this is going to go. They’re a strange mix of players, with him and Jack as two of the youngest to make the team, and Connor knows odds are good they aren’t both going to be playing their natural positions with the amount of competition there is for center. Maybe they’ll be asked to play together. 

That shouldn’t send a thrill up Connor’s spine, but he remembers the first time they’d played together at BU, during practice a few weeks after Coach had designated Connor first line center. Jack hadn’t spoken to him at all for at least two days after that, not even to acknowledge Connor’s _hellos_. Connor didn’t know what to say; he knew just how pissed he would be if he were in Jack’s position, and he also couldn’t bring himself to reign himself in and let Jack win. 

The thing is – Jack is good. Jack is _so good_ , and Connor still shivers when he watches Jack on the ice. Jack’s observant, thinks quickly, reacts even faster. He sees the game almost as well as Connor. Before BU, Connor had never met anyone who could keep up with him, and the first time they had skated together, when Coach wanted to test Jack on his wing for the power play, it had just _worked._ Connor remembers wishing that Jack could play on his wing all the time. 

He doesn’t know if Jack remembers that as fondly as he does; until that day, Jack had been cold to Connor, but after, back in their room, Connor was unable to let the silence linger. 

“We were good together, weren’t we?” Connor asked, sitting on the edge of his bed. “Shit, I wish we could play together like that all the time.” 

“Yeah, whatever,” Jack muttered. “You heard Coach, it’ll just be sometimes.”

“You felt it too, though, didn’t you?” Connor asked. “We’re _good_ together.”

“Whatever,” Jack said, looking over his shoulder. “We’re both good at hockey, alert the presses. It isn’t like we’re drift compatible.”

“Drift what?” Connor asked. “Oh, come on, Jack. I know you hate me or whatever, but you have to admit that was fun.”

“No, I don’t,” Jack snapped. He was red-faced with annoyance now, scowling fiercely. “BU was supposed to be _my_ thing. We shouldn’t even be playing together. So fucking drop it, would you?” 

Connor stared at him in disbelief. “Why are you _such a dick_?” he burst out, throwing his pen at Jack. It bounced off his forehead and landed in Jack’s lap. Jack looked so surprised that Connor started laughing, lifting his hand to hide his mouth. 

“What the fuck,” Jack said, picking up the pen. “Your _pen_? That’s what you throw at me?”

“You’re being an asshole,” Connor said once he was able to stop giggling. “Fuck. Sorry.”

Jack shook his head. He looked he might be suppressing a smile, and Connor tried not to be pleased by that, but he couldn’t help the small burst of pride in his chest. “Whatever. You’re right. We do play well together.” He looked up, opened his mouth as if to say something else, then shook his head and threw the pen back to Connor. “Do your homework, superstar.” 

It was the first time Connor had thought that maybe they could be friends. 

But they haven’t played with each other in over a year now, have barely spoken to each other since they both left Boston for Worlds, and now it seems like they’re back to where they started: Jack pretending that Connor doesn’t exist, and Connor hoping, wishing, praying that Jack will look back at him. Some things, apparently, never change. 

 

When Connor thinks about Jack, he remember this: it was early spring in Boston, still cold, snow still on the ground, and Jack was standing in the doorway to their room looking flushed and excited. 

“Connor,” he said. “I have something for you.” He pulled his hand out from behind his back and held out a red combination lock. He turned it over so Connor could see the back, where in sharpie he had written _J & C 2015._

It took Connor a moment to remember what it meant. Then he thought _everlasting love_ and the wry twist of Jack’s mouth as he said it, and he smiled, shakily. “Let’s go,” he said, and he reached out to take the lock from Jack’s hand. 

They walked together to the bridge over Massachusetts Avenue, not speaking the entire way. Connor itched to lace their fingers together, but he wasn’t sure if Jack would let him, and besides, he was holding the lock. His palm was sweating despite the coolness of the day, and it slipped slightly against his hand. He squeezed it tight and glanced over at Jack, who was walking with that long, loping stride that made Connor have to speed up to keep pace. 

When they reached the bridge, they stood in silence for a few moments looking over the cars rushing underneath them. There were more locks now than there had been in February, several dozen at least, and Connor lifted them up to read what they each said. _Hannah and Jason 4Ever. Sonja + Jun. I love you still. I miss you 1992-2014._

“Connor,” Jack said. Connor glanced up at him and found Jack watching him fondly. “Do you want to do the honors?”

“What’s the combination?” Connor asked, looking down at it and turning the dial absently. 

“Nine seven sixteen,” Jack said.

“Nine, seven…sixteen,” Connor repeated as he turned the dial, the meaning of the numbers only becoming apparent to him once the lock clicked open. Their jersey numbers – nine and ninety-seven, added to sixteen. He turned a wry smile on Jack. “You sap.”

Jack shrugged, but he was smiling too. He reached over to cover Connor’s hand with his and said, “Come on.”

They picked a blank part of the fence and looped the lock over it, clicking it into place. For a moment neither of them moved, hands both still on the lock. Then Jack dropped his hand and pulled Connor to him, kissing him soundly and desperately, and Connor clung to him, grateful beyond measure for this last, tiny piece of privacy they have to themselves. In a month, it would be gone. They would never have a moment like this again where they were just two college students in a sea of many. So Connor kissed back for as long as he had breath, hoping to keep hold of the moment for just a little longer. 

 

“Are you excited to be playing with Jack Eichel again?” a reporter asks during the scrum after practice. Connor looks up from untaping his shinpads and tries to see who asked. 

“Um, yeah, of course,” Connor says. “He’s an amazing player and I’ve missed playing with him.”

“You were roommates at Boston University, is that correct?” the same reporter asks. Connor thinks he works for ESPN. 

“Yeah,” Connor says. “We became pretty good friends when we were there. I wish our time there could have ended a little better, but now we have another chance to win together, and it’s great. I’d rather be playing with him than against him.” His gaze catches on Jack, who’s watching him from the other side of the room. He misses the next question and has to ask the reporter to repeat it. 

Later, he’s on his way out to head back to the hotel the team is staying at when Jack catches up with him. He’s wearing all Sabres gear, and Connor can’t help but think the color looks nice on him, which is kind of pathetically sappy. Neither of them say anything for a while, not even looking at each other, before Jack finally clears his throat. 

“You didn’t have to say those things to the reporters,” he says. 

“I meant them,” Connor says. “Did you want me to pretend we hate each other?”

Jack winces and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Isn’t that the story anyway?”

“I don’t hate you,” Connor says. “I fucking miss you.” He doesn’t look at Jack as he says it, too embarrassed by how true it is. “You know we’re going to have to see a lot of each other during this. Can’t we try to just be a little friendly? I really miss being friends.”

“I don’t want to be _friends_ with you,” Jack snarls, and he speeds up, as though he hadn’t been the one to accost Connor in the first place. 

Connor catches up with him, grabbing his elbow and pulling him to a stop. His heart is pounding, and he’s suddenly _pissed_ , because they _had_ agreed, they had both said that they couldn’t keep doing whatever they were doing and play in the NHL too. “Could you at least act like you can be in the same room as me without trying to murder someone?” he asks. 

Jack opens his mouth, gaze dropping to Connor’s mouth, and for a moment, Connor is sure Jack is going to kiss him, regardless of the fact that they’re standing on a public street, only ten minutes away from their practice rink. Jack wavers, tilting forward, and Connor’s breath catches in his throat, waiting. 

“I can hardly stand to look at you,” Jack says, voice barely above a whisper, and he yanks his arm out of Connor’s grip before striding away, leaving Connor to gape after him like an idiot. 

 

The first time Jack kissed him was during the second snowstorm of the year, just a week after the first. They had spent the previous one holed up in their dorm with their teammates, drinking and playing board games while the wind raged outside. Jack was antsy, though, and Connor felt a bit cooped up too, so when Jack asked if he wanted to go for a walk and see what the city looked like, he said yes. 

It was strangely eerie, the streets mostly abandoned except for a few stray cars and the snowplows. It looked like someone had taken a bucket of paint to the buildings, and the buildings that Connor had learned by heart now seemed alien and unknown. When they reached the fens, they both had to stop and stare in awe. It was post-card perfect, a mass of untouched snow. 

“Wow,” Jack said, and then he shoved Connor hard. Connor swore and grabbed at Jack’s coat as he tumbled down hill on the side of the street, laughing when Jack cursed at him. Jack landed on top of him, knees on either side of Connor’s thighs, and reached over to grab a handful of snow. 

“No, Jack—” Connor said, but it was too late. Jack smashed the snow into Connor’s face, laughing maniacally. Connor thrashed up against him and wished that he had spent more time in the weight room because Jack was fucking _heavy_. Jack planted a hand in the middle of Connor’s chest, easily him holding down as he tried to twist away. 

“You’re an asshole,” Connor said flatly when he’d managed to shake most of the snow off his face. He tried to pull Jack’s hand off him. “Come on, Jack, let me up.”

Except when he met Jack’s eyes, Jack was staring at his face. No, not at his face; his mouth. Connor swallowed, hand relaxing around Jack’s wrist. Jack’s gaze flicked up to his eyes, then back, and Connor closed his eyes as Jack leaned in to kiss him. 

Connor didn’t know how long they lay there, steadily growing colder as they kissed and kissed, hesitant at first and then more sure as Jack realized Connor wasn’t pushing him away. Connor was aware, distantly, that his jeans were getting damp from the snow, and that his head was rather cold, but he was more focused on the slick feeling of his mouth against Jack’s, the foreign, wonderful feeling of Jack’s tongue in his mouth. 

When Jack pulled back, Connor made a soft noise of protest, trying to tug him back. Jack was staring at him wide-eyed, startled, like he couldn’t believe Connor was real. Connor lifted his cold fingers to Jack’s cheek, watched him flinch slightly before turning into the touch, and he drew Jack back down to him, knowing that at some point they would have to go back to their room, that they would have to talk about this and what it meant. But for the moment all he wanted was Jack’s mouth on his, to kiss the chill from Jack’s lips and to forget everything the future held – the draft, the Beanpot, the NCAA championships, finals, all of it. 

 

Saad has invited everyone out for dinner at a steak restaurant near the hotel, with the façade of it being optional but everyone knowing it’s meant to be a chance for everyone to get to know each other. Connor takes the cowardly option of sitting next to Nuge rather than taking the open spot across from Jack and strikes up a conversation with Ryan Strome so they can mock Dylan behind his back. It’s funny how easily everyone seems to settle into easy camaraderie despite playing on different teams during the season and being divided by national lines the rest of the time. They all have hockey in common, which makes it easier, of course. 

The first college party Connor went to was really loud. That was the first thing Connor noticed upon walking into the fancy apartment close to the river. The second thing he noticed was Jack, who was wearing a backwards baseball cap and a Red Sox t-shirt and was talking animatedly with a heavily bearded guy. Connor was about to go try to say hi out of sheer polite instinct when Brandon waylaid him and shoved a Bud Light into his hands. 

“Dude!” Brandon said. “Come meet everyone.”

Connor had met many of the team members before, but it was good to meet them more casually so he’d actually recognize them if he passed them on the street. The guy Jack was talking to ended up being Matt O’Connor, their goalie, and Connor asked him some questions about the team that made Jack throw his hands up in frustration.

“This is a _party_ ,” he whined, but Connor and Matt were talking about Carey Price and ignoring him. Well, Matt was ignoring him; Connor found Jack strangely hard to ignore most of the time. He had this odd knack for taking up more space than he logically should. 

Connor, perhaps unwisely, was not keeping track of the drinks being pressed into his hands as his conversation with Matt slowly gathered more participants. Soon he was yelling about the Leafs defense to a guy whose name he was pretty sure was Anthony, although he was possibly wrong about that, and he nearly knocked over the steadily growing beer can pyramid until someone caught his wrist and gently started towing him away. 

“Who is – oh, it’s you,” he said, twisting around and spotting Jack. “What do you think about Morgan Rielly?”

“Dude,” Jack said. He was more flushed than usual and scowling, which seemed to be his permanent state when it came to Connor. “You’re totally trashed.”

“I am _not_ ,” Connor said, but the moment Jack released him, he wobbled. Jack raised his eyebrows like he had proved something and grabbed Connor by the wrist again. 

“I’m taking Hockey Jesus home,” he announced to the room at large. “If anyone has any objections, take it up with me tomorrow.”

Connor waved goodbye to everyone as Jack dragged him out, with only a brief pause while Connor relocated his shoes. Jack, muttering something about Canadians and weird manners, led Connor out to the street, where the air was about as hot and close as it had been inside, but at least it smelled fresher. Connor tipped his head back and stared up towards the moon. It was full, which seemed significant. 

“The moon is full,” he told Jack, in case he hadn’t noticed. 

“Jesus Christ,” Jack said. “If you throw up, I’m not holding your hair.”

Connor didn’t _feel_ like he was going to throw up. He did feel sort of floaty, like his feet weren’t touching the ground. He groped for Jack’s arm, managed to catch part of his sleeve, and said, “Keep me on the ground.”

“You’re fucking weird,” Jack said, but he obligingly took Connor’s elbow and started leading him back to their dorm. Connor didn’t get it; Jack had to be at least as drunk as him, but he seemed the same as usual: angry, annoyed, and displeased by Connor’s general existence. Connor didn’t like it. He wasn’t, like, _needy_ , but people generally liked him. He was often told that he was “such a nice, polite boy” and it wasn’t like he had done anything to Jack. 

“Why do you hate me?” Connor asked, licking his lips. His mouth always felt so dry when he was drunk. “You don’t even know me.”

Jack’s face was hard to see in the dark and the weird angle, but Connor was pretty sure he rolled his eyes. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No,” Connor said. “We never even met before orientation weekend.”

“You’re _Connor McDavid_ ,” Jack said, like that was an explanation. He let go of Connor’s arm. Connor opened his mouth to protest, then realized they were standing on the porch of their dorm. Jack fumbled out the keys, got the front door unlocked after only four tries, and pushed Connor upstairs toward the room. Connor kicked his shoes under the bed, stripped off his clothes, and collapsed into bed, head spinning. He could hear Jack doing the same, and for some reason he looked over, catching a glimpse of pale back as Jack climbed up onto his mattress. 

“The thing is,” Connor said slowly and thickly, “we could be friends, right? We play for the same team right now.”

“So?”

“So you don’t have to hate me,” Connor said triumphantly. He rolled over on his side and squinted across the room toward Jack. “Is it because of World Junior?”

“No. Yes.” Jack shifted over too, and Connor could distantly make out the pale oval of his face. “You have no idea what it’s like to hear the same fucking name over and over since you were fourteen telling you that as good as you are, you still aren’t the best.”

“That’s not _my_ fault,” Connor said petulantly. 

“Not entirely,” Jack said. “It’s a little bit your fault.”

“For what, _existing_?” Connor demanded. 

“Yeah,” Jack said. Which about summed it up, really. 

 

Connor doesn’t realize he’s staring at Jack until Strome snaps his fingers in his face and says, “Earth to McDavid, come in.” 

“Fuck off,” Connor says automatically, knocking his hand away. “What?”

“You were in another world, dude,” Strome says. “You okay?”

“Yeah, you know,” Connor says. He makes a show of yawning. “Tired, is all.”

“Aww, did Connor not practice enough during the off-season?” Strome teases, pinching his ribs. Connor slaps his hand away again and gets up. 

“Connor’s going to wipe the floor with you next we play each other if you keep that up,” Connor tells him. He reaches out for his water glass, downs the rest, and heads off for the washroom. He takes a piss, washes his hands, and is drying them with one of their cloth hand towels when the door opens and Jack comes in. He locks the door behind him. 

“Are you going to get pissed at me again?” Connor asks, meeting Jack’s eyes in the mirror. “For something I didn’t even do.”

“Stop talking,” Jack says tightly. “I just –” He pauses, swears, and grabs Connor by the shoulder, turning him around before backing him up against the counter and kissing him. 

It’s more desperate, rougher than Connor remembers, but Jack still tastes the same, still holds onto Connor’s hips the same. Connor wraps his arms around Jack’s neck and tries, impossibly, to pull him closer, to sew up the space that’s grown between them. Jack’s eyes are screwed shut, closed up tight; Connor can’t bring himself to close his. 

“I thought we weren’t going to do this anymore,” Connor says breathlessly when Jack pulls back. “There are people out there.”

“Stop _talking_ ,” Jack says again. “God, you’ve always been such – so –”

Connor tilts Jack’s jaw toward him, feeling the rough prickle of his stubble beneath his fingers. He’s missed that, missed everything about him. “Yes?”

“You drive me fucking _crazy_ ,” Jack says. It doesn’t sound like a compliment. “We shouldn’t do this.”

“You’re the one who came in here,” Connor points out. Jack insinuates his leg between Connor’s and presses his thigh up. 

“I know,” Jack says. “Shit, I know that.”

“So don’t act like this is my fault.” Connor curls his fingers into the raggedly cut circle of Jack’s collar. “Or maybe we could – only for the World Cup.”

Jack looks almost hopeful as he stares at Connor’s face, eyes roaming like he’s searching for something. “Only for the World Cup,” he says eventually, and Connor sighs as Jack kisses him again. 

 

The first time Connor and Jack met was at orientation for the BU hockey team, when they were introduced to each other and then promptly separated when they were put on different teams for a hockey trivia game that ended with Connor’s team losing on a question about Phil Housley. Connor had not been particularly pleased—“a whiny crybaby” were Jack’s exact words—and they had parted on bad terms. It wasn’t that Connor ever really expected to be _friends_ with Jack; they had played against each other at enough international competitions that he was sure that would always be a wedge between them. But he had hoped they would be friendly, at least.

By the end of orientation weekend, Connor was pretty sure Jack hated him. He had been a little put out by it, but hadn’t thought too much about how Jack always seemed to be glaring at him. There was no reason they had to hang out if Jack didn’t want to, not when they had the rest of the team and the school to befriend. 

And then, on his first day in Boston as a student, Connor walked into his room and discovered that Jack was his new roommate. Whoever thought it was a funny idea to put them together in a room, Connor thought darkly, should be fired and then possibly dropped into the river. 

Jack’s mother was helping him set up the room, and she seemed a little startled that Connor’s own parents weren’t there, but they were helping his brother get set up in his new apartment, and it wasn’t like Connor didn’t have experience with dorm rooms after four years of boarding school at Shattuck. He tried to reassure her that his parents would be coming for parents’ weekend anyway and there was no need to fuss, really, but somehow he ended up on a Bed, Bath, and Beyond run with them, pushing the cart while Jack and Louise bickered about towel colors and thread count and whether Jack and Connor needed a scrubbing brush for their bathroom. Connor attempted to stop her from paying for the lot, since half of it was stuff he would be using too, but she waved him off. In repayment, Connor carried the bulk of the bags back to the dorm while Louise and Jack led the way. 

Their dorm was a small brownstone near the Charles River with only a handful of suites. Jack and Connor had their own bathroom, which was nice, and Connor got the impression from what conversation he could hear from Jack that this was one of the perks that came along with their admission. That was one of the things he should have considered when he was applying to schools, he realized sheepishly. He hadn’t even thought of anything beyond playing hockey and maybe getting to show up Calvin in the process.

Louise left a little after noon once Jack had assured her that he was fine, he really was. She clucked over him, kissing his forehead, before giving Connor a hug and asking, “Are those two bags really all you have, dear?” Connor was beginning to suspect he had been a little underprepared. 

“Yes, it is,” he said. “Thank you so much for your help today, Mrs. Eichel.”

“I told you already, it’s Louise,” she said. “I’m sure we’ll get to know each other over the year, may as well break the ice now.” She squeezed Connor’s arm, shot Jack a look that had Jack raising his hands like _I didn’t do anything_ , and said goodbye. Once she was out the door, Jack flopped backward onto his bed and groaned loudly at the ceiling.

Connor glanced over his shoulder from where he was unpacking his clothes on his bed. He felt kind of odd comparing how little he had brought with the teeming mass of belongings Jack had brought. He had brought a suitcase of clothes and school supplies, and a duffle. He hadn’t thought about things like a shower curtain or a rug or a trashcan or a desk lamp, all of which they had purchased earlier that day, and he hadn’t thought to bring pictures or posters either. Jack had barely unpacked and his side already looked like an actual bedroom, like someone lived there. 

“Your mom’s nice,” Connor ventured tentatively when the silence began to feel awkward. 

“Yeah,” Jack says dismissively. “Can you believe they roomed us together?”

Connor shrugged. “I guess they thought since we’re playing together we should get to know each other.”

“Yeah, but it isn’t like we aren’t already being compared like we’re Ovechkin and Crosby or some shit.” When Connor looked at him again, Jack was making a face. “God, fuck unpacking. I’m going to get coffee or something.”

“Oh,” Connor said, feeling weirdly let down. “Um, have fun.”

“You too,” Jack said, dry, and he left, the door slamming shut behind him. Connor stared after him, a Shattuck shirt held limply in his hands. 

“Shit,” Connor said to the shirt. Because it was a shirt, it didn’t have any words of wisdom to impart about how to make Jack like him. Connor scowled and turned to shove the shirt into his new dresser.

 

When they return to the table, they are careful not to walk close to each other. Connor hopes desperately that the flush in his cheeks has gone down, and he’s briefly glad that most of the other guys are too busy drinking or chirping each other to notice how mussed his hair. Jack shoots him a small smile when they sit down, and for a moment, it’s so like being back in college, when they kept their relationship as a secret between them, precious and dangerous and vital, that Connor half-expects to see Matt or Gryz sitting down the table talking shit about BC. 

Connor’s supposed to be rooming with Gaudreau, but when he suggests in an undertone that maybe he could switch with Jack, he pulls the whole, “We’re old college roommates, dude, you know how that is,” and Gaudreau nods right away, wide-eyed. 

“Yeah, man,” he says, “that’s sick that you’ve played together. Can’t wait to see it.” He grins and adds, “But BU sucks,” to which Connor replies with a firm middle finger. 

Jack brings his suitcase into the room and drops it by the foot of Gaudreau’s abandoned bed, and they both stand there for a minute looking at each other before Jack laughs and says, “Well.”

“Well,” Connor agrees. He’s trembling; he can feel it in his fingers, can feel the nerves in his stomach. He’s missed Jack _so much_. He takes a hesitant step forward, and then they’re stumbling towards each other, falling into each other’s arms, and Connor buries his face in Jack’s neck to breathe in the familiar smell of his shampoo. 

The first time they’d had sex was after the Beanpot, both of them tipsy from far too much beer and Jack absolutely aglow with triumph. “I’ve dreamed about this since I was a kid,” he said over and over into Connor’s skin, and Connor was laughing, bright and probably too loud, and they didn’t let each other go. Connor woke up in the morning with Jack plastered to his back, the two of them barely fitting on the twin bed. 

“We have bigger beds now,” Connor says into Jack’s neck, and Jack starts laughing, holding onto Connor tight enough to hurt. 

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Yeah, we do.”

Maybe it’s that it’s been a long time for both of them, or maybe it’s that they’ve missed each other that much, but neither of them last long once they get their clothes off, Jack jerking himself off onto Connor’s stomach before going down on him, and Connor coming within minutes, holding tight to the bed to try to stop himself from arching up. 

“Shit,” Connor says, staring at the spackled ceiling. 

“Watch it,” Jack says, kissing Connor’s stomach. “You want first shower?”

“In a minute,” Connor says. “Come here.” He beckons until Jack obligingly scoots up to lie beside him. “You know our lock?”

Jack tenses. “The one on the bridge?” 

“Yeah.” Connor tilts his head to look at Jack, the familiar line of his jaw and nose. “I went back when we played Boston. It’s still there.”

“I know,” Jack says, voice barely audible. “I looked, too.”

Connor isn’t sure what to say about that. Instead he reaches for Jack’s hand and twines their fingers together. It’s one of his earliest good memories of Jack, from when they were put on a team together for a scavenger hunt during the first weeks of school. He had trailed after Jack and the others past Fenway, down toward the statue of Erik the Red, which they had to take a picture in front of, and down toward Northeastern to take a picture of them doing something in front of their arena. The street they were on turned into an overpass for a block, cars rushing beneath them. Jack and the others walked over it without paying much attention, but Connor had to stop and look. 

There was a chain link fence that separated the street from the railing, and it was covered in locks – some combination locks, others old-fashioned key locks. A few had writing on them; others were blank. It was a strangely arresting sight. 

Connor didn’t realize how far ahead the others had gotten until he heard Jack say in an exasperated voice, “McDavid, come _on_ , I want to win this.”

Connor ran a finger over the top of one of the combination locks, where there were several letters written in black ink. “What are these?”

“What, these?” Jack came to stand beside him. “You know how in Paris, couples put locks on the bridge and throw the key into the water to, like, show their everlasting love? I guess people started doing it here, too.”

“Why a combination lock, then?” Connor asked. He touched the dial gently and spun it. “What do you think the combination is?”

“Maybe it means something special to them,” Jack said. He reached out and tugged at Connor’s arm. “Come on. Let’s go.”

It has never ceased to surprise him that Jack had remembered that – had remembered that Connor liked them – because that was back when Jack hated him, or acted like he did. 

“Why did we decide it was better like this?” he asks instead. “I really miss you, Jack.”

“You’d miss me either way,” Jack says. “At least this way we can move on.”

“Can we?” Connor asks, gesturing to the two of them in bed together. “This isn’t moving on.”

“What do you want me to say, Connor?” Jack asks. “That fuck it, let’s date when we live in _different countries_?”

“Other people manage it.”

“Other people aren’t NHL players,” Jack says. “I love you, you know that, but this is what I’ve worked for my entire life, and I know the same is true for you.”

“It isn’t fair,” Connor says quietly. They shouldn’t have to choose, never mind that their entire lives have been a series of choices until this point. They’ve chosen and chosen, and every time hockey has always won out. Connor doesn’t regret that. He loves hockey more than anything in the world. 

“No,” Jack says. “But for right now, we can do this. Can’t we?” 

Connor should say no, because it’s going to hurt worse when they leave this time, being reminded of what he and Jack had in college, when they used to lie in bed and whisper to each other across the space between them, about what it would be like in the NHL, about how shitty their classes were, about their families and their fears. It’s going to hurt, and he’ll hate himself for it, but in this moment, he’s too selfish to say no. He kisses Jack instead, and draws him against his chest. 

 

When Connor had committed to BU at fourteen, he had imagined a grand adventure. It would be like movies and TV, all parties and laughter and fun and, above all else, _hockey_. He talked about it with his family, talked about the possibility of trying for exceptional status like John Tavares, and it was only the desire to prove to his brother that yes, he could go to college too, that had him setting his jaw and saying, “I’m going to BU.”

Calvin had laughed, of course, and ruffled his hair because he was a _jerk_ and said, “Don’t get too drunk at frat parties.”

Because he was fourteen, Connor had scowled and said, “Don’t tell me what to do,” and their mom had said, “ _No one_ is getting drunk at frat parties,” and then they’d gotten a lecture on responsibility that was mitigated by her feeding them cookies. Mom was a softie at heart. 

By the time he actually got to Boston, after three years of Shattuck and one summer of accelerated classes, the prospect of college wasn’t as exciting as it had been at fourteen. He’d already lived away from home, had already had a roommate, had gone to parties that were definitely not supposed to happen. He was prepared for college, he totally was. 

And then he walked into his new dorm room and found Jack Eichel making one of the beds, a woman who must be his mother hovering at the head and saying, “Not like that Jack, you’re going to rip the slipcover off in your sleep.”

“Oh,” Connor said. Jack looks up, eyes narrowed, and sighs dramatically. 

“I was wondering when you’d get here,” he said. 

 

They don’t win the World Cup. 

In truth, Connor wasn’t expecting to, and in some ways it’s far less devastating than losing the NCAA Championships. They had both cried after that, clinging to each other as they wept uselessly. Connor has felt worse few times in his life. But what makes this hard is the thought that it’s the end of him and Jack. This time for sure, isn’t it? They haven’t said that, but they can’t go on like this, pretending that everything’s fine. If he couldn’t have Jack, it might have been nice to win _something_. 

Neither of them say anything as they’re packing up, and it’s like the first day again, when Jack wouldn’t look at him. Connor doesn’t trust his voice not to crack, so he stays quiet, focusing on folding his clothes neatly and thinking about what he’s going to watch on the way home. 

“Well,” Jack says eventually. Connor looks up and sees that Jack has finished packing, his arms hanging uselessly at his sides. “I guess this is it.”

“I guess,” Connor agrees. He hesitates, then holds out his hand for a shake. Jack eyes it warily before abruptly pulling Connor into a hug. 

“This is so fucking stupid,” he says in Connor’s ear. “We’re so fucking stupid, why do we keep doing this to ourselves?”

“They say love makes you stupid,” Connor says. “Don’t they?”

“Maybe.” Jack digs his fingers into Connor’s neck. “I can’t do this again, Connor.” 

“So let’s don’t,” Connor says. “I don’t want to. We can try it, can’t we? It can’t be worse than this.”

“You’re such a fucking optimist,” Jack says. “Okay. Okay, yeah, let’s do it.” 

 

The next time Connor is in Boston, he takes the familiar streets down to the Massachusetts Avenue bridge and sees that the fence has more locks than he remembers, enough that he has to look until he finds the right one. It’s a bit weathered now, battered, and maybe one day someone will get around to taking it down with the others, but it’s still there. _J & C 2015_. He flicks the dial aimlessly and takes a picture, sending it to Jack. 

_Still there_ , he says, and he walks to the T, grinning to himself.


End file.
